Poems and Songs By Robert Gilfillan. Fourth edition. With memoir of the author, and appendix of his latest pieces |
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DIRGE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD. |
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 | Poems and Songs |  |
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DIRGE OF THE ETTRICK SHEPHERD.
The Bard of Ettrick's silent now,
His loved harp sounds no more,
Though scarce we think its notes are dead,
And all its tones are o'er;
The leaf's not fall'n that late was green,
When in his woodland bower,
Amid his forest solitudes,
We listened to its power.
His loved harp sounds no more,
Though scarce we think its notes are dead,
And all its tones are o'er;
The leaf's not fall'n that late was green,
When in his woodland bower,
Amid his forest solitudes,
We listened to its power.
And yet a boding voice is heard,
His spirit's flight it tells,
And thus, in cadence wild and deep,
The wailing chorus swells;
While hill and dale, and rock and tree,
And every vale around,
Respond the shrill aerial dirge,
In music's saddest sound:
His spirit's flight it tells,
And thus, in cadence wild and deep,
The wailing chorus swells;
While hill and dale, and rock and tree,
And every vale around,
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In music's saddest sound:
“All mournfully—all mournfully,
We bore the Bard along,
And laid him in the narrow house,
Where lives no voice of song.
The grave is now his resting place,
Where weary pilgrims sleep,
His dwelling is the narrow house,
Which death's strong warders keep.
We bore the Bard along,
And laid him in the narrow house,
Where lives no voice of song.
The grave is now his resting place,
Where weary pilgrims sleep,
His dwelling is the narrow house,
Which death's strong warders keep.
“One morn the echoes ceased to wake,
The mountain pipe was still,
Another came, and yet we missed
The Minstrel on his hill.
We sought him where his home appears,
Far in the forest glen,
And found Kilmeny's Bard had left
The land of living men!
The mountain pipe was still,
Another came, and yet we missed
The Minstrel on his hill.
We sought him where his home appears,
Far in the forest glen,
And found Kilmeny's Bard had left
The land of living men!
“St Mary's Lake is lonely now,
And now from Yarrow's stream
The pride of love and pomp of song
Have vanished like a dream;
And Ettrick Vale, where every flower
In beauty fair did blow,
Now mourns her moorland harp unstrung,
And all her flow'rets low!
And now from Yarrow's stream
The pride of love and pomp of song
Have vanished like a dream;
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In beauty fair did blow,
Now mourns her moorland harp unstrung,
And all her flow'rets low!
“The rose shall bloom on Tweed's fair banks,
The lily yet shall spring,
The mountains shall burst forth in song,
And all the grove shall sing;
But who shall call the Minstrel forth
When summer decks the plain?—
The tenants of the narrow house
Come never back again.
The lily yet shall spring,
The mountains shall burst forth in song,
And all the grove shall sing;
But who shall call the Minstrel forth
When summer decks the plain?—
The tenants of the narrow house
Come never back again.
“The fount of song hath ceased to flow,
Which Ramsay did descry,
And at the feet of Ferguson
In pebbly pride went by;
Or nobly o'er its crystal banks
Did gushing overflow,
When Burns, in glory and in joy,
Beside the stream did go.
Which Ramsay did descry,
And at the feet of Ferguson
In pebbly pride went by;
Or nobly o'er its crystal banks
Did gushing overflow,
When Burns, in glory and in joy,
Beside the stream did go.
“The Minstrel of ‘Gleniffer Braes,’
And others of the lyre,
Have followed, till the silver thread
In Yarrow did expire.
Bright fount of song, whose cooling draught
Did soothe our deepest woe,
Who now shall raise the wand, and bid
The rock-lodged waters flow?
And others of the lyre,
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In Yarrow did expire.
Bright fount of song, whose cooling draught
Did soothe our deepest woe,
Who now shall raise the wand, and bid
The rock-lodged waters flow?
“The harp that long in Scotia's land
Hath gladdened with its sound,
Is only where the willows weep
In sadness to be found!
Or should the rude blast wake a chord,
'Tis but a passing strain—
The Bard who of Kilmeny sang
Comes never back again!
Hath gladdened with its sound,
Is only where the willows weep
In sadness to be found!
Or should the rude blast wake a chord,
'Tis but a passing strain—
The Bard who of Kilmeny sang
Comes never back again!
“No more to sing 'mong Yarrow Braes,
Or charm in Ettrick Vale,
Or cheer the shepherd's humble hearth
With simple song or tale!
All mournfully—all mournfully,
We bore him sad along,
And laid him in the narrow house,
Where lives no voice of song!”
Or charm in Ettrick Vale,
Or cheer the shepherd's humble hearth
With simple song or tale!
All mournfully—all mournfully,
We bore him sad along,
And laid him in the narrow house,
Where lives no voice of song!”
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